


Hux's Rousing Pep Talks

by Riels_shorts



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack Fic, Feline emesis, Gen, Mentions of planetary destruction, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 12:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18098966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riels_shorts/pseuds/Riels_shorts
Summary: This is a story about Armitage Hux and his mirror.———-Excerpt:"Everyone respects you, Armie.”The reflection is as motionless as the stark black walls of his chambers. Hux thinks the eyes looking back at him tear up a little bit when he says that.———-Put differently, this is a series of vignettes of TFA and TLJ from Hux’s perspective.





	Hux's Rousing Pep Talks

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, betas, for massively encouraging me: bensslipperysocks, MyJediLife, and especially a shoutout to Erulisse17 who offered a truly impressive amount of helpful edits and corrections. If there are any problems in the text you can be guaranteed they're mine and I ignored Erulisse17's good advice.
> 
> Thank you to situation_normal who, besides being a talented author, is also a gifted comic artist and made the above illustration which so beautifully captures the heart and soul of this piece. ❤️🙏

Hux looks at himself in the mirror. 

He tugs on one decorated sleeve and tips his head back, looking down his nose at the reflection, then sniffs. 

"Yes," he mutters to himself. 

He touches both sides of his hair with his palms, again, tapping gently to catch any errant hairs that might have escaped his copious hair gel, the violently precise attentions of his grooming droid and, failing that, his withering glare.

"Hm," he utters. "Good."

He turns around, surveys his surroundings, purses his lips. 

His eyes flicker to the ceiling, taking in the mostly empty bookshelves of war memorabilia and teacups, all the dark corners of his private quarters, checking for holocams and monitoring equipment. Finding to his satisfaction that there are still (as of yet) no unwanted listeners, he clears his throat.

He shakes out his arms.

"Rrrrbrggbrblehhh," he clears his throat again, waggling his tongue.

He briefly closes his eyes and, with a flourish, he flings himself around toward the mirror and begins to speak.

"You," he proclaims. "You are a glorious man. General Armitage Hux of the First Order, leader of legions, right hand of the Supreme Leader, conqueror-to-be of the entire galaxy. You are going to have a good day. Today will be your best day yet."

Something catches his eye. Is it—yes, a wrinkle. Disgruntled, he disguises it under his longcoat. He will complain to the underlings later. 

"You are capable," he resumes. "You will succeed. You will root out all weakness, punish all offenders, and be the greatest you have ever been."

He pauses. 

Takes a deep breath through his nose. 

"Everyone respects you, Armie. You are good; you are great; you are amazing. Leader Snoke is impressed with your achievements, all of which are growing and will, in time, bring the glory you deserve and the power to ensure that no one will ever forget the name of Armitage Hux, forever exalted in the annals of galactic history."

The reflection is as motionless as the stark black walls of his chambers. Hux thinks the eyes looking back at him tear up a little bit when he says that. 

"Everyone fears you. Wait, no—" He holds up his outspread hands, "Everyone likes you, Armie."

Hux straightens, nods to himself and stifles a smile that arises unbidden. Then, full of lively spirits, he thrusts toward the door and propels himself out.

Standing there in the corridor is Kylo Ren. 

Kylo Ren is wearing a helmet and a glower. Hux knows the glower is there; he can feel it even if it's covered by metal and enough fabric to drown a litter of rathtars. It's always there, like a damp sponge squeezing discontent and leaving a trail of mopey, contemptuous puddles. Ren says, "Oh. You."

Hux's day is immediately and irrevocably ruined.

 

 

—————- 

 

 

Millie is meowing into Hux's left nostril.

Millie is not actually a krayt dragon but, because she is unaware of this fact, she plans to gnaw on her human very soon if he does not sate her fierce hunger that has clawed desperately at her for the last eight and a half seconds.

His eyes slide to the clock display. Twenty-four minutes until his alarm goes off. 

Hux gives Millie a side eye. At least, he tries to give her one as she noses her face into his, rumbling. Her breath is warm, and also... robust. He grunts in distaste. 

"Rocks for breakfast for you, foul, dastardly beast," he mutters.

He was dreaming of planetary destruction, too. He had been using lasers to carve the initials A.H. into Arkanis. Millie meows again, circling on his chest to graciously allow him the view of her backside and uplifted tail, and Hux throws off the bedcovers. 

He might throw Millie off too. But that would be her fault, her mistake, he reasons. Weakness cannot be tolerated. Reaching the kitchenette, he presses a button in the wall and a foul-odored gray liquidy slop squirt-plops into a small dish which he places on the floor. He stares at her, hands on his hips, blearily daring her to do something about it.

She eats. 

He nudges her with a bare foot. 

She chirps.

He supposes he will have to like Millie today.

He turns to the wall where his uniform and long jacket hang crisply. They sit on separate hooks, displayed next to a First Order banner that he commissioned to celebrate himself after a particularly heartwarming victory. _Those people threw themselves at my feet,_ he thinks. _They adored me._

Nearby is the mirror and he looks at himself. Considers. Recalls yesterday's little pep chat with himself. 

Ah. 

Right. 

Yesterday was a disaster. 

Kylo Ren ruined every bit of good mood and positive energy he had mustered up and he had done it all by just breathing nearby.

Kylo Ren is the worst. He also scares Millie, which is a black mark in Hux's book.

Shuffling over to the mirror in his fluffy slippers, he pauses to reassure himself: "You're going to make it today, Hux," he says. "Ren is a child and you're better than him. Ren is a catastrophe waiting to happen, doomed to fail, a fool and a big… brat." He hesitates minutely before that last word because it feels whingey to say out loud and that's unbecoming of a future Supreme Leader. This emotion flusters him. But not enough to stop himself from affirming, "You're so much better than him."

He marches to the ‘fresher (Mentally he marches. His physical body does something closer to flopping) and comms his grooming droid. Minutes later, towel-clad, he carefully unfolds his meticulously hung uniform and dresses. The droid, SPF-90, arrives, performs his work adequately in silence, and leaves.

Hux pushes a button on the food console and a chalky liquid, also gray, dispenses into a waiting black mug. 

Hux checks again for listening devices in his room, as is his ritual. He sips the liquid. Then he sets down the mug, tugs at his sleeve.

"Achchemmbbrrbbluggbbpfff."

Millie is done eating and the sound of clearing his throat draws her sudden wary gaze. She watches her human rehearse his day.

_Starkiller!_ He says frequently. 

_The Republic!—_ This he enunciates with spittle on the ’p’—he mentions with more enthusiasm and a lot more volume.

Millie's eyes begin to narrow and droop and then gradually slip shut.

"You're good, Hux," he smile-frowns at himself at last, deeply moved. "You're great. Everyone will love you." _Everything will be—what was the word? Ah, ‘awesome,’_ he adds mentally.

Meanwhile, Millie has fallen asleep.

A moment later, the alarm clock goes off.

Hux glares at it. He glares at Millicent. 

Then he thinks better of that and just glares at everything. 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

The next morning, he stands in a pose with his hands on his hips, shoulders back, chin high, and and an expression of confidence on his face. Visualizing a cape gently wafting in an invisible breeze, he holds eye contact with himself in the mirror for exactly five whole minutes.

He times it. 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

The morning after that, he tries some exercises that Kelly from Communications suggested would boost his stamina. He tries Warrior, Downward Facing Tree, and Unhappy Wookiee. 

The exercises go smoothly until he slips and has an accident. Hux likes physical stamina. He likes it a lot. But when he loses his balance during Wookiee and breaks a Nabooean teacup it scares Millie and she narrowly misses launching herself down the garbage chute. He's very into the rousing positive self-talk but he’s not so sure about finding his "inner goddess.” 

Unquestionably not at the cost of compacting his cat. So, regretfully, he stops. It is not because he does not feel a divinity within—he does with certainty—it's just that he would like to envision something with less bikini armor and fewer waving appendages of questionable function.

He runs into Kelly later. She raises an eyebrow at him. She knows. 

Hux quickens his pace, avoiding her eye. 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

Today is an important day, Hux decides, tugging on his waistband exactly 24 standard hours later.

Every day is an important day, actually, since he is an important man. 

The most important, in fact, although there are two significant people who would disagree if they knew. Unfortunate that both of them are mind readers. 

He frowns.

Maybe, Hux surmises, secretly they do know, and are aware that they can't survive without his power, the unwavering loyalty of his troops. His army. 

His... charisma.

They could be... afraid of him.

Yes, today is a good day. Perhaps he should visit Starkiller again and mingle with his officers and troops, spice things up with a little display of pomp, inspire some fear. They love that kind of thing. 

That is a good plan. He will do it immediately. He gulps down his gray breakfast beverage and strides out the door.

 

 

He comes back inside to look in his mirror one more time.  
"Be amazing," he tells himself.  
Then he goes back out.

 

 

—————- 

 

 

Yesterday—yesterday was—appalling. That is the only word for it. 

Not only was his field trip to Starkiller canceled, but he also had to deal with an escaped prisoner and a rogue stormtrooper and a grouchier-than-usual Kylo and Millicent vomited on his pillow. 

The day was a mess, an utter loss. Like his bedding. Like his life. Like the whole entire rotting galaxy. He threw his sheets in the garbage chute. Then he buzzed for his wardrobe droid to bring a replacement, but he probably should have tried the droid first, because he received back a generic unresponsive "droid is charging" message and the central laundry facility was surpassingly unhelpful. They did not stock Aeien silk sheets regularly, sir. Would the General like the grunt class linens, bloodstains possible but quite sterile, or the adventure-ready First Order logo-embroidered officers' bedding, sir?

Hux wanted to detonate all of it. 

He flung himself onto the couch that night, fully clothed.

Today, he feels somewhat better. Not rested, exactly, because he has only been asleep for three hours, but absolutely back in command. There is fur all over his uniform and his head won't turn entirely to the right. But he will be where he is needed.

He hears the beep of an incoming comm. Leader Snoke. 

He glances at his cat. She meows at him encouragingly. He nods at her and takes the call. 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

It is the middle of the day. 

He must prepare a speech. This is the best day of his life. 

They think he needs time to write this; laughable! He's had this speech ready for what feels like years, but appearances must be kept. 

_The weapon!_ He grins. _The Supreme Leader said I get to fire it!_ Hux is so giddy he could burst. Burst, like five planets are about to do. And he got to go to Starkiller Base for his field trip after all and now he will orchestrate some _real pomp and ceremony._ His face is already red from the exertion of all the smiling.

He inhales and exhales. He arranges his cap in the mirror. Begins his rehearsal.

Nearby, Millicent jumps down from the top of the shelf that contains a solitary Corellian whiskey. She knocks it off as she hurries to hide under a low desk in the other side of the room.

It shatters. Hux does not notice. 

 

—————- 

 

 

A vacant, vacuous-eyed husk of a man stares back from the mirror, the sterile lights casting the shadows of his face into creases that do nothing to improve his current self image. There are inch-long bags under his bloodshot eyes. His cheeks have managed to sink in entirely over the space of several hours. There is a new pimple forming amidst the strawberry stubble. His lip twitches.

"GYAAAAHH!" he bellows, raising his fist to smash it, teeth bared, drops of spittle misting the mirror. He halts himself. Abruptly reconsidering. _No. That is what Ren would do. I will not throw a childish tantrum. I won't. Star—_ he stops himself, cannot utter the name. The journey from the battle, the _disastrous,_ humiliating, terrifying battle, has not taken more than an hour or two, but his whole left side is burning. He has done a lot of yelling. And he is still in pain from the effort of dragging a half unconscious Kylo Ren aboard a shuttle at high velocity while a planet disintegrated around him. It feels like ten days of exhaustion have caught up with him.

 

Oh, he wanted so badly to have a trooper do it, _(drag him through the dirt!)_ but Snoke ordered him directly. Hux didn't want to risk any mishandling of his orders. After he got aboard, he made the troopers carry both of them because, honestly, they could at least do that for him. 

_Dear ancestors and extinct deities, what made that man so heavy?_ Maybe it was the Force. 

_Floppy, too._

His addresses his reflection. 

"Today, you will seize the day. You will rectify the failures of others and lead the Order on the path to victory."

Ugh, and the _babbling._ Normal Kylo Ren was sardonic, silent, impolite and sarcastic if he spoke at all, but this version—this injured and possibly delirious Kylo—was the most infuriatingly talkative man he had ever had the misfortune of dragging through a forest. Girl this, girl that. Han Solo, traitor, saber, girl girl girl. When he started describing the girl's "feral face" and "parted lips" Hux dropped him pointedly. This elicited a pained, mournful moan from Ren.

 

"To the medbay?" the shuttle crew asked him. 

"Ha! No. No need for it." 

"I mean for him," said the officer, pointing to the gaping wounds clearly visible. 

"So did I."

The bastard bled on him too. Disgusting. Rude. 

Well. 

_I destroyed the Republic,_ he argues. _That is worth something. I am worth something._ He faces himself squarely. Points finger blasters at himself. Forces a grin. It feels wrong and he gets a sick feeling in his stomach. 

"You've got this, Armie. You're a real hero. An icon. A Leader. Everything will turn out; you'll be brilliant." 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

Things are not brilliant. 

The only bright spot to this morning, he muses, is that hideously ugly bandaid Kylo has to wear. It is delightful. It reminds Armitage of the plastic cone he once made Millie wear and it gives him no end of joy to see the tall hulking and sulking creature limping around with such an embarrassing disfigurement. 

He almost hopes it will become infected and solve a larger problem than the Resistance base he is about to obliterate.

These happy thoughts carry him through the door, as he strides, whistling, out into the hall with his hands folded neatly behind his back. He later passes Ren, re-helmeted, in the corridor by the medbay and nearly fails to hide a snicker. 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

_Oh, gods._

_Oh, oh, Force, Boz, Kiax, Ivax, Fashkaa, Elder Gods, and everything I don't believe in._

That did not go as expected. Not at all. 

He stares at himself, not in the privacy of his chambers as he would like, no, but in the only place with a mirror that he can find on the way to the Supreme Leader's audience hall. 

It's a public 'fresher and he is massaging his temples over the metal sink in the glare of blue panels illuminating stark black walls, hoping he can manage to regain his breath and his calm. 

Leader Snoke was livid. If this audience doesn’t go well he... he is a dead man. Obviously, it was everyone else's fault. He will explain. But Snoke tends to… he shudders. Snoke punishes from the top down. 

_No. Focus. Take a centering breath, man. Inhale through the nose, you know how it's done, exhale through the mouth._ He inhales—then immediately winces and splutters in agony (right, _that_ was idiotic), reaches frantically for something to contain the blood and growls at the sink when he finds nothing but a used cake of what appears to be soap. _Soap of questionable provenance and quality,_ huffs a disdainful voice unhelpfully in the back of his mind. There is a curly hair stuck to it. He settles for splashing cold water on his face until the bleeding just gives up and submits.

"That's right, Armie," he mutters, disgusted. "Show it who's in charge. You're smart, you're noble and—and a beautiful creature, a god among mortals and the Supreme Leader will recognize your work. He will. Oh, gods. He will." He sobs into the sink.

From a stall nearby, a very loud gurgling suddenly erupts, then a splurt, followed closely by a cough and an apologetic deep voice. A colorful smell quickly overtakes the tiny room. Hux ejects himself from the 'fresher faster than Poe's juiced-up x-wing speeding over a cruiser and redder than a Chibanga melon. 

 

 

—————- 

 

 

...

Armitage... stares.

... 

He stares. He really, deeply, stares. 

Thoughts aren't happening right now. 

Nothing is happening right now. 

The ship is in half. 

He has not slept in 37 hours. 

There is dust on his clothes, actual dust. 

His blood is on fire from the caf and stims, his nose is... also on fire, but differently so and, truth be told, he can hardly feel it. He can hardly perceive anything at all. He feels one thing only: a clawing, empty, gaping hole in his soul that demands single-minded murderous action. His hand clasps on his blaster; his index finger strokes it absently. 

Ren is a walking disaster zone. Everything the man touches explodes. He went to Starkiller. Then the place exploded. He went to Snoke's audience hall. That exploded. Crait was an unmitigated nightmare, also involving explosions. The man must be stopped. Oh, and! he threw him against a wall, _ha ha_. The same side of his body that hurts from dragging him out out the forest now hurts from that impact. _Thanks for your gratitude, Ren. Supreme Leader. Supreme Arse._ He glances furtively to see if any cams caught that.

"Good morning, sir!" SPF-90 bursts cheerily into the room, shattering his composure. Hux knocks his right ear against the wall, jolting in alarm. His right ear which _was,_ until now, the only as of yet uninjured part of his body. He glares, infuriated, at the droid.

"Sir! General!" screeches the droid in terror, backing away from him.

Hux blinks and looks down. He finds his blaster aimed at the droid, though he has no memory of moving his arm. Hux sways slightly and focuses on lowering his arm, which he finds takes considerably more concentration than expected. Ordinarily, someone would apologize in this situation, but he only apologizes to the Supreme Leader, and the Supreme Leader is dead. And, he realizes belatedly, this is a droid. It’s not like they have feelings or rights.

"Spiff," he addresses the droid, glancing back up at SPF-90's round golden eyeports. "Your. Erm. Your services are required."

“Uhm. Y-yes, General, of course." 

"I need a new pressed uniform. 3 tubs of pomade. Anise-scented cologne. New Aeien silk sheets. A new pair of polished boots." 

"Er, General, sir, if I may, where would I find these supplies? The fleet is in ruins at the moment and the Supremacy, it, well—" 

Hux is raising an eyebrow at him. 

"It's rather split up. I—er—" 

"And a bottle of Corellian whiskey. Make that two bottles of whiskey. Face lotion, hand cream, that… other lotion that I like, you know which one—" 

"Indeed, sir?" 

“And a recently deceased loth-rat." 

"Sir?" 

"For Millie." 

A pause. 

"Of course, sir."

In the corner, as SPF-90 exits the space, Millicent unfolds herself from her napping spot on top of a set of pointy-lidded Hapan ceramics and pads across the floor toward the general. The mirror and several priceless collectors' items lie broken and scattered from the aftershocks of the collision, but by some providence she made it through. He feels grateful for that.

His regards her thoughtfully. He’d bet she actually slept through the whole thing.

Swiveling a wide chair toward the viewport, he turns his gaze to the black of space and his reflection as he seats himself and places his hands on the thronelike armrests. The small furry creature hops up to his lap.

His hair is wild. His boots are scuffed, his nose is crooked, there is blood caked inside his shirt and hell if that pimple hasn't gotten _larger_ , too. There is rage in his soul. He is covered in salt.

He strokes Millie. “Sorry for the explosions,” he whispers softly to her, scratching behind her ear. “It was Ren’s fault.” She nips at him.

He gazes outward into the void. 

He takes a deep, long, steadying breath.

"You've got this, Armitage," he recites. "Today will be a successful day. Everything... everything is awesome. Go, you."

 


End file.
